


Closer Still

by ThrowMeAStory



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, Fever Dreams, Graphic Description, Gunshot Wounds, Matter of Life and Death, Memories, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Not Really Character Death, POV Christine, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Temporary Character Death, alternative ending, between life and death, paintings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrowMeAStory/pseuds/ThrowMeAStory
Summary: What if Christine passed out on the pier, not died?This is in the same universe as Past All Thought.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Kudos: 10





	Closer Still

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Hi! After watching Love Never Dies, I got curious and googled about being shot in the stomach. Morbid, I know but apparently you can live 15-30 mins after you get shot and since Madame Giry left almost as soon as Christine hit the floor... Anyway this is in the same universe as my other TPOTO fanfiction Past All Thought. Enjoy!!!

"You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens."- Rumi

I feel myself being passed into a different set of arms as the echo of my opera ghost's howls of pain linger in the cold air and the weight of my son, who's head had been resting in my lap is now also no longer present. I immediately recognise the scent that envelopes my senses as he presses me to his chest, to be that of my husband. The wood of the pier is digging into my calf as the darkness that has already taken my vision tried to swallow the rest of me. As I slipped away into oblivion I have only on thought at the forefront of my mind.

I'm not ready.

Not Yet.

Opening my eyes, I expect to see either pearly gates or fiery ones waiting for me. Instead I'm greeted by the pastel and gold covered walls. The dark grey sky outside is casting an ominous light. My hand is laying limply next to me, stroking the soft green velvet that I am currently sitting on. I push myself up, trying my best to ignore the constant pinching feeling in my abdomen.

I'm in our home in France, more accurately I'm in the hall leading to our small gallery. Learning against the arm of chaise lounge I let myself have a minute to gather my thoughts. My hand caresses my stomach and I'm expecting to come across some sort of hole but surprisingly there is nothing there, it's not even wet with blood. However I stagger back as I suddenly feel winded, just like I had minutes or maybe hours ago when the bullet had hit me.

The grey light flickers and the candle wicks burst into flames as I'm hit with a intense burning feeling in the lower half of my body, especially in my gut. My back hits the wall with a heavy thud as I yank at the top of my peacock inspired dress with my left hand. The top half of me was sweating and shaking at the same time. My right hand was looking for something to grasp on to when I unknowingly twist a door handle and fall backwards into the room.

The hot heavy pain ceases as soon as I cross the threshold to the gallery. Slamming the door behind me I turn around and survey the beautifully cold, familiar room. On closer inspection though, the decor might have been the same as it was the last time I stepped in here, but the paintings were not. The six abstract watercolour and oil portraits that sat on the wall to my right had been replaced.

The first frame, which was normally an oil painting of the lower grounds had been replaced with two sketches. One of Meg as young woman and the other of Madame Giry, both looked as if they were eroding away and Meg's had a hole through it. The second had always held another painting depicting the garden. Now it held a large, dark oil painting of Carlotta and Piangi, who had a bright red rope round his neck.

The third and forth was usually watercolours of the red brick fountain that sat in the middle of the green grass and of the greenhouse where Raoul's mother planted her favourite flowers. In their place currently was a pastel drawing of a boat and a oil work of HIS lair. Both of which were smudged and had a slight wrinkle to them, as if they had been wet. Then dried out. 

Number five was a big looming piece that on any other day would portray the scene of My brother and sister-in-law's wedding. Today it had been replaced a depiction of the masquerade ball, painted in pink and purple. The oak frame had been swapped for a shining silver and had stars engraved along the edges. Red had seeped in from the sides and stained the border.

The last one had always been the pride of The De Chagney Family, a startling and awe inspiring painting of house, it almost looked like a photograph but in beautiful and vibrant colour. Now it's substitution made bile rise in my throat as it ignited a blistering pain in my abdomen. The likeness of The Paris Opera House towered over me, only it was illustrated in bright oranges and yellows, with the corners burnt and the light reflecting of the frame. It looked like it was on fire.

I could smell the smoke.

Limping into the next room as fast as I could go, I rested against the glass cabinet and gazed at the unchanged miniature portraits of the family. They were mostly children and distant relations. Friends of the family and their children. Pictures from weddings and birthdays, from Christmases and parties.

On the walls were the depictions of Raoul's great grandparents and grandparents. Aunts and uncles, brother and sister-in-law with their children. His father. Our wedding portrait. 

Next to them was one of him by himself. His blonde hair, his good looks and confident posture. The only thing not right was his eyes and forehead, they looked sad and his skin wrinkled and red. Reaching out, the canvas under his eyes was wet but when I pulled my hand back the colour hadn't budged, however my fingertips were wet.

Memories of screaming and shouting at each other, of him gambling away our money until the only thing we had left was the house, stood at the front of my mind. Times when we were children and would sit in the dark attic, telling each other ghost stories. Days after Gustave was born when we would just sit outside, in the sunshine and be happy. Even just three years ago, before the drinking had started, when we had spent the week in the country, just me and him.

The canvas of his mother sat next to his on the wall. She had been a fantastic women. So sure and confident in herself. Every a great woman should be.

Soft sounds of a bow against strings richohet through my bones. I did not own any portrait of my father or my mother but I could always recognize the piece of music he told me he played for her. An uncomfortable feeling rose in my gut, like something was expanding, causing the horrible burning pain to return. What would father think of me now I wonder?

Disjointed notes of a piano made me twirl around so fast I almost lost my balance. I could not make out a clear tune but after every few notes I could hear moans, then the piano would start again. A sickness, not unlike the one I felt on my wedding morning, hit me as hard as the bullet had. After it had subsided though, all I felt was loneliness and abandonment.

Following the sound as it changed from a unconnected melody to one that filled me full of joy and made my heart soar. My angel of music was guiding me somewhere safe, back to him and our son. Picking up speed, I could hear something rattling in my stomach and with every jolt it was breaking apart. I reached a painting of Coney Island pier and without thinking, I ran through it.

The burning smacked into me like being hit by a horse and cart. The darkness was still trying to pull me under and it was using a lot more force than before. I wanted to live. I could feel my husband's hand in mine, so I did the only thing I can.

I squeezed. As hard as I could. He froze and lifted his head from my neck. I can hear Gustave sobbing somewhere.

I squeeze again.

"Christine?"

"And here you are living despite it all."- Rupi Kaur

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I've read many a fanfic of someone seeing or reliving their memories, hell I've written a few, so I wanted to try something different. While I have never been shot, I have had a bad fever quite recently (not covid related) and I felt like I was on the good stuff. The things I was imagining and seeing was quite...something. Like and review, I love the feedback!!!


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